


A Rip in the Sky

by Mithrigil



Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: BDSM, Breathplay, M/M, Music Piracy, Post-Canon, Sex Drugs and Rock and Roll, Space Pirates, Weird Plot Shit, a love letter to fandom in the early 2000s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-09 04:02:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8875183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mithrigil/pseuds/Mithrigil
Summary: An intrepid reporter seeks to uncover a story about a conspiracy in the music industry.Trouble is, Curt and Arthur have been there before.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [recrudescence](https://archiveofourown.org/users/recrudescence/gifts).



_“You see, if one plays good music, people don’t listen, and if one plays bad music, people don’t talk.” - Oscar Wilde via Algernon Moncrieff_

_“Most rock journalism is people who can’t write, interviewing people who can’t talk, for people who can’t read.” - Frank Zappa_  


*

It is 1992, and a band suspiciously similar to Radiohead is playing a sold-out gig in an East London pub. The stage, such as it is, consists of a rickety dais thirty centimeters off the ground: the drummer’s head is barely visible behind his comprehensive setup in the corner, packed in like a hope chest in the attic. The bassist and the guitarist barely have room to swivel their hips, but the lead singer has all the space in the world to straddle the microphone stand and vicariously jerk it off.

For all that it’s new, it brings back memories.

Because the crowd is the same as it was in ’62, ’72, ’82, further back if you’re feeling fanciful or have a certain green stone on your person. There have always been starry-eyed hopefuls drinking music like mana from heaven, intoxicated on the primal promise of a better world. There have always been music’s icons and angels, its demigods, meeting the worshipful horde halfway to paradise. Frock coats and heels may come in and out of style, but the principle remains even in not-actually-Thom-Yorke’s army surplus boots and clingy grey T-shirt: _I don’t belong here._

And perhaps there has always been a person in a smart suit, standing at the back of the crowd, intent and yet apart. This time, it is a man in his early forties, with slick black hair and a close-cut pinstripe English. His shoes are shined, his briefcase nestled against his shin, and in one hand he holds a portable recorder to unpainted lips, murmuring his commentary and observations. Favorable, mostly, if his smile is anything to go on. There is a twinkle in his depthless eyes, like an anglerfish lurking in clouded water.

As the song ends, and applause swells, the man in the suit shuts his eyes and listens. The recorder in his hand lowers along the length of his thin blue tie--

\--pinned at the heart with a green cabochon. The jewel glints in its pale gold frame like a smile, as it has on the cravats of idols through the ages.

* * 

> TIMES OF LONDON  
>  8 MARCH 2002
> 
> **WILD RECORDS RELEASES CATALOG: COMPETITORS FURIOUS**
> 
> FOLLOWING last week’s UpSter court ruling, which deemed peer-to-peer file-sharing illegal, Wild Records CEO and founder Curt Wild has elected to release all of the music on his label to the public. Representing over a hundred International bands and solo artists, among them the Abingdon Rejects, Twenty Centimeter Screws, Cheshire Stocks, Mischief Night, and Siobhan O’Donnell, Wild Records insists that the artists were consulted before the CEO made his controversial decision.
> 
> “We are committed to every artist on our label,” a Wild Records spokesman said at the 7 March press conference. “All the artists will continue to receive royalties, and we have already raised their percentages. If an artist wishes to opt out, they may go through the necessary channels to dispute their contracts at any time. But our artists expect an increase, not a decrease, in revenue among their fans and supporters for participating in this bold initiative.”
> 
> A bold initiative indeed: rival labels, including Sovereign Records and Victrola International, have spent years embroiled in lawsuits with so-called music pirates, enabled by file-sharing programs like UpSter, Huzzaa, and MediaTide. Last week’s court ruling in RIAA vs. UpSter Inc. set a precedent for file-sharing as copyright infringement. But Wild Records, in explicitly permitting the digital spread of its artists’ music, asserts that the freedom to share music is not harmful to producers.
> 
> “Kids have always pooled their pocket change to afford music, always snuck into concerts,” said Luke Lancaster, lead singer of the Abingdon Rejects. “I remember crawling through pub windows to get a listen at Jack Fairy when I was a tyke. Soon as I could pay it back, I paid it back, and there’s plenty of people paying it forward now for the kids who just want to hear a good record. Better they get it on the Internet than feel like they have to tie the bouncer’s shoes together or mop it from the record store.”
> 
> But other bands on the Wild Records payroll are less enthusiastic.
> 
> “The system’s in place to protect us,” said solo artist Justin Kasich, who plans to dispute his contract with Wild Records in light of this event. “Not just from people who want to get or albums for free, but people who want to repackage and bootleg it. There’s more than just the singers gets hurt; the cover artists, the managers, the techs, everyone down to the kid who gets us water doing recording. Take the copyright away and the whole thing falls over. Curt’s behind the times if he thinks this is just a couple of kids swapping vinyls.”
> 
> For more on this, see the OP-ED on page B16.
> 
>  
> 
> **OPINION: CRITIC CAN’T CRITICIZE WILD DECISION**
> 
> Before I was a music critic, I was a lonely, terrified boy living in Manchester. My elder brother spotted me a quid so I could buy Brian Slade’s debut EP. He also said several things not fit for print that almost dissuaded me from purchasing the record at all.
> 
> A few years later, I was couch-hopping in London, scrounging for whatever gigs I could get, mostly as a roadie. If it weren’t for the rock community I’d likely have died on the streets. Several friends of mine did, or died later from the havoc that those rough years wreaked on their bodies. The charity of the musicians I worked for and with sustained as many of us as it could, when family and country would not. (To say nothing of my time in New York in the early eighties.)
> 
> Times change, of course; dictates shift, and rulers rise and fall, but the singular desperate generosity of artists is constant. And those who exploit that generosity, and that desperation, are just as constant. But I do not speak of those who prevail upon artistic compassion, those children who cling to the hope that music gives them because without it they will fall: I speak of the so-called producers and distributors who wring the artists, and their fans, dry.
> 
> The RIAA victory in the US courts is unfortunate, even tragic. It cements the legal power of those who do not _make_ music over those that live and breathe it. It strips the rights of artists to hold copyright over their own work and distribute it as they see fit, stifles their creativity in making them beholden to corporate marketing, and only profits the abusive practices already in place at most major labels. But what else can we expect from a world where He Who Has the Gold Makes the Rules? I am not in the least surprised by the ruling, though I am certainly disappointed, and hope that no such suit comes to pass here in the UK. I am likewise unsurprised at several artists who, though they are surely placed the unenviable position of wanting their careers to continue and fearing their losses without the RIAA’s protection, have denounced Wild Records’ gracious and charitable venture.
> 
> In every interview I have conducted in my criticism career, which now spans nearly twenty years, I have asked the artists if they are thankful for their success and reception. Always, they credit the fans, for without them, they would have nothing. As the man who infamously exposed the mass deceit of Tommy Stone, who himself was once Brian Slade and lost everything but his legacy in betraying his fans twice over, I know that the balance of power in art is delicate and should be respected.
> 
> What the RIAA and its supporters have done is disrespectful in the extreme: what Wild Records has done, while equally extreme, seeks to restore that balance. It is the opinion of this editor that the UK’s musicians and fans will be empowered by Wild Records’ new policies, and I commend all those participating in the venture for their bravery.
> 
> Arthur Stuart, Arts and Entertainment Editor-in-Chief

* *

It is one fiscal quarter into 2002, and the Internet has just exploded.

Those who read their news in print will have to wait until morning, but stories have already begun to circumnavigate, spreading from the protests in England like a byte-borne plague.

CONFLICT OF INTEREST, some especially eloquent signs say, possibly planted there by record executives. The less eloquent ones say SELLOUT COCKSUCKER, and since those can’t be shown on the BBC they find a home on various music blogs, message boards and mailing lists.

The facts are as follows:

CEO Curt Wild has put up the figurative finger at the RIAA.

Critic Arthur Stuart, by coming down in favor of Wild’s proposal, has given legitimacy to those dissenters who seek to retain control of the music industry.

Stuart is in bed, somewhat literally, with Wild, and has, less literally, been in said bed for over twenty years.

It’s so much easier to go after them both when they live in the same house. With someone else’s impressionable child. Illegally. 

And (think the sorts of people who have blaring green quid notes in their eyes, or dollar signs if they’re nasty) tying their figureheads in with a differently controversial issue will allow the RIAA to crush these vile pirates once and for all.

* *

Riley Hyatt runs into work late like a cliché, coffee in hand and the filth of San Francisco all over her shoes. They’re not particularly impressive shoes either, but she considers herself lucky to work at a place that doesn’t care that she’s wearing army surplus from maybe ten years ago and prioritized the aforementioned coffee over brushing her hair. Which she hasn’t. But she can’t hide behind it when the elevator spits her out on the fifteenth floor of what totally isn’t the Wired Magazine offices and the receptionist is already _tsking_ at her.

“Late,” he trills, as if she didn’t already know. “Connolly wants you in his office ten minutes ago.”

“I know, I know,” Riley groans, leaving the prized coffee on the receptionist’s desk. Maybe it’ll serve for a peace offering. Maybe she should get something nice for the janitors too, to apologize for tracking the Bay Area onto the boss’s carpet.

The walls are internal glass so there’s no way for her to sneak in, and the meeting is already underway. Riley still takes time to choke down a couple of deep breaths behind the relative safety of the door before she opens it. Of course everyone looks at her, it’s her fault, but she tries to make her grimace as contrite as possible.

“Looks like you drew the short straw, Riley,” Connolly says, with that fake Silicon geniality that belies how much he’d rather be dealing with a protocol droid than a person. “Get to your desk and start ringing up all those friends of yours across the pond. I want an in at Wild Records. Now.”

Riley hopes that her gaping expression won’t be interpreted as _are you fucking kidding me_. “Sir?”

“Catch up on your own time. You’ve wasted mine.” Connolly waves at the door, which Riley’s still holding open. “If you don’t know why we need this, tell me now.”

“No, no, I know, ” she tries not to stammer, “I know Wild called out the RIAA yesterday and--”

“What did I say about not wasting my time? _Go_.”

Maybe the _yes sirs_ and _sorry sirs_ are unnecessary too, but Riley gets a couple of them out anyway before she shuts the door in her own face.

The truth is, of course, that Riley Hyatt knows more about today’s controversy than she’d ever admit. There have always been those who turn their ears up to the stars.

* * *

_Starship Galahad_ soars through the cosmos, to the tune of musics vintage and obscene. Like a Tardis or a tour bus, it is massive on the inside, and in this case decorated in filigree that climbs the walls and ceiling around exposed conductive gems with purposes beyond human comprehension. Enormous baroque windows with blast door frames tower at the helm. Stained glass lamps and gem chandeliers light the ceiling at intervals, casting their colors on the bridge’s only two occupants, currently seated one-atop-the-other in the same chair.  
The pilot and copilot are certainly not human, or if they are they’re uplifted, but they have silhouettes that wouldn’t be out of place on Earth. Neither would their anatomy, as far as anyone can see where one disappears into the other, their flesh barely visible between the rhythm of their passion and the abundance of clothing.

 _Backdrifts_ plays, but neither of them is singing it. Arthur’s mouth is occupied, wringing gasps out of Curt’s with every bite and every downward slam of his hips. Sweat mats the kohl around Arthur’s eyes. Lipstick stains Curt’s bare chest, blazing platinum like his hair and the fine stripes on Arthur’s open coat.

Earth looms beyond the windows, decrepit and grey even from space.

Curt’s hands, half-gloved, latch on to Arthur’s hips and drive him _down_ , over and over. Arthur flails, choking, then clings to Curt’s epaulets and buries his face in Curt’s neck.

“It’s ours,” he murmurs, barely audible over the music, “we did it--”

“ _You_ did it,” Curt corrects, punctuating every thrust. “It’s yours. So am I. Come for me, Arthur, do it _now--_ ”

He does. White glosses over his eyes and paints over Curt’s chest, connecting the silver kiss-marks and bruises. Arthur is _beautiful_ like this; connected, open, young, his black hair plastered to his forehead and his eyes closed but lax. His hips don’t stop moving. The chair can take it, but Curt evidently can’t, and doesn’t want to.

Arthur relaxes at last, when Curt’s pumped him full. _Backdrifts_ drifts on, no matter how irregular their breath.

Curt laughs and slumps in the chair, dragging Arthur down with him. “Ready to set it free?”

“Always,” Arthur pants, grinning. He caresses Curt’s cheek, fingertips trailing down the slick streaks on his chest, and then he reaches behind himself and pounds a red beacon on the console.

The bay doors open, and glitter rains into Earth’s orbit.

* *

“Okay, you _owe me_ so hard,” Mina says, not garbled by distance at all. “I got you Keith Hoult.”

Riley doesn’t have to check her factsheet for that one, but can’t help confirming. “The Rattz’s bassist?”

“Yeah, and he’s also a VP at Wild now. He said he’ll talk to you but he’s got conditions.”

“What conditions? Anonymity?”

“Hold on.” The receiver muffles. Riley doesn’t mean to grind her teeth and curbs it to a shiver as soon as she catches it. “Okay, he just wants confirmation. This is _Wired_ , right? No politics?”

Riley nods, then remembers, right, phone. “Yes. I mean no. Yes _Wired_ , no politics.”

“Good. Get ready to write down his number so _you’re_ the one that gets stuck with the charges.”

Of course, Riley does: in the minute and a half it takes her to remember how to breathe, she also brings up Hoult’s Wikipedia page. Or, well, tries to, because he doesn’t have one. But the redirect is straight to the Wylde Rattz, and most of Hoult’s info is there, plus pictures from as recently as ’96. He looks chill, like most of the bassists Riley knows; the kind of backyard cookout guy it’s hard to picture living the glamorous rockstar life, despite the copious evidence.

No politics. Okay. That’s not on Riley’s work agenda anyway. And her personal agenda shouldn’t matter, not right now.

She calls, and gets Hoult’s office: the secretary pages her through, holy shit this is _real_ , and then a gravely voice with a broken Minnesota accent replaces all the British gentility. “Keith Hoult.”

“Hi,” Riley says intelligently. “This, um. Riley Hyatt, Wired Magazine. Thanks for agreeing to this interview.”

“Slow down, the connection’s bad enough as it is.”

“Right, sorry. Thank you for your time, Mr. Keith. I mean Mr. Hoult.”

He laughs, and if he were in the room to laugh at her Riley might just about die. “Fan, I take it?”

“Yes. I mean, kinda. I wasn’t really, um, born in time while you guys were touring but I love your music.”

“Good, I do too.”

It’s meant to loosen Riley up, evidently; she laughs, and okay it’s a lot uneasy but she can at least start talking. “So, um. About the RIAA ruling.”

“Of course. Well, you know it doesn’t effect us over here in England.”

“Yes. But Mr. Wild’s decision was still based on that?”

“Yes, but you’re talking to me, not him.”

“I know. But, um--”

“Sorry, girl. Didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just that we’ve got people gumming up the works over here and trying to make this about art instead of the music.”

“Art?” Riley asks, then realizes, too late.

“Art. Arthur. Stuart. That’s why I said no politics.” He groans. Would he pinch the bridge of his nose? No he doesn’t seem the type, not from his background picture. “It’s a damn smokescreen and it’s just as bad over here as it is over by you, if not worse.”

Riley’s done enough interviews by now that she knows the signals: the balance between _I need to vent_ and _this can’t be on the record_ is so tenuous, and it needs to be tipped slowly if at all. “I know how much that can suck. Feeling like you’re caught up in drama you didn’t sign up for, I mean.”

“Considering what I _did_ sign up for,” he says, like that’s the entirety of the sentence.

Maybe it’s an in, maybe it’s not. But Riley resolves to hold to the script as much as she can, and maybe the rest of the truth will just slip out. Stories have their ways. “Has Curt, I mean, Mr. Wild, has he always been at odds with his producers?”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Hoult says. Thereafter, Riley knows plenty.

*

It is 1984, and that’s not a fucking joke anymore, and Curt is playing a gig in NYC. Calling it a gig instead of a show makes it easier: he sure as hell didn’t sell any tickets. But hotels make good on their booking fees, even if fans are thinner on the ground than they used to be, and in a way that’s better. Easier. Fuck, Curt’s fucking _thirty-seven_ and now he sounds it.

He flips twin birds at the bartender for old time’s sake. Still works. Good.

Someone’s already swung him a stool, so he sits: the acoustic’s within reach, and Curt plucks out the riff a couple times. _Gimme Danger_ starts slow, unplugged, and he keeps it that way. He’s only played it this way a couple times--the first because of a power outage, that was a fucking trip--and it’s still fresh, still new. It’s a different song, when he’s not singing it over thousands of people begging for him; not better, not worse, just different. Foreboding, maybe. Darker, heavier. Easier to hit the low notes.

But even when the words slip out, he remembers how it used to feel. Letting go onstage, having the lightning coming _out_ instead of _in_ , having it _his_.

 _Kiss me like the ocean breeze,_ he sings: nothing poetic happens.

But on the downstroke, the guitar wedges against his chest, and a tiny flash of pain makes his eyes open over the crowd.

The hotel has those doorways built for cargo, not for leaning on in silhouette. Maybe that’s why the silhouette is happening, but not the leaning. And it’s not who Curt expected to see. Or who he missed, long ago. There, right in the center where the lobby light is an unnatural tang orange, is a wage monkey in a suit and tie. Tall, put together. From the neck down he’s some dime-a-dozen businessman with a suitcase on wheels who probably wandered in and isn’t sure he cares what the fuss is about.

From the neck up, he’s that reporter. That kid from _Death of Glitter_. Arthur. And he’s wearing Oscar Wilde’s pin on his tie.

 _Gimme Danger_ starts sounding more like it’s supposed to, whether Curt means it to or not. He never does, onstage, just goes with his gut and his gut is telling him _fuck yes I’m gonna see you around_.

*

Set’s over, show’s over, and Curt doesn’t bother waiting in his dressing room or any of that shit. The crowd’s small enough that he knows Arthur’s not in it. But the hotel’s got a bar, one of those ritzy mirror-top jobs that people’ll start doing lines at in a couple of hours.

And yeah, Arthur’s at the bar. He looks up when Curt sidles in next to him, with that little dormouse smile of his, and yeah he glances away after that like he’s still that shy skinny groupie from ten fucking years ago, but then he looks Curt straight in the eyes again. Not, what’s the word, diffident. Not anymore.

Fucking hell, Curt could fall into those eyes and never find his way out.

Fucking hell, that’s _mushy_.

“Hey,” he says instead.

Arthur smiles. “Saw you around, I guess.”

“Guess you did.” Curt can’t help honing in on the pin. It winks at him, kinda. Those four little spirals are like eyelashes in a kaleidoscope. He remembers when Brian fastened it onto his collar, how there was nothing else in the world, how even if it was a gift it still felt stolen. “How’s the paper?”

“Ask someone who still works there.” If it weren’t for the little twinge at the corner of Arthur’s mouth, Curt wouldn’t have caught the amusement. “It’s fine, though, I got another job.”

“That’s good.” Hell, this is awkward. Worse than last time. Definitely harder than the first, but then again Curt held all the cards back then and now they’re all dealt. It’s times like these a guy could use a shot. He flags down the other kind of shot from the bartender. “Was it,” Curt starts, then trails off because he doesn’t have to say it.

_Tommy Stone. Brian Slade._

Arthur nods, doesn’t look up this time. “Yeah. But it was worth it.”

The bartender slides Curt a snifter of the same thing Arthur’s having. Beer’d be better, but Curt’s got plenty of that upstairs. “You got another gig lined up?” he asks, before he drinks.

“I do,” Arthur says. “You don’t have to worry.”

He doesn’t. That’s true enough. Arthur’s resilient if he’s anything else. The kid went through hell, Curt remembers, Midlands instead of Midwest but Virgil’d call it the same Circle. You don’t make it out alive if you don’t plan on surviving.

The pin refracts the shifting light as Curt drains his glass.

“You ever get your wish?” Curt asks with his throat still burning.

Arthur’s smiles before had been hapless, personal. This one’s brighter that stagelights. “It’s an ongoing project.”

Curt grins back. “Is it.”

*

Suffice it to say they don’t stay at the bar very long. NYC isn’t the kind of place they can fuck on a rooftop under the stars, mostly because there aren’t any fucking stars, but Curt’s hotel room does just fine.

Two rounds later, Arthur’s still wearing the tie--tighter, then looser, then tighter until his eyes roll back in his head and his throat’s as pink as his tongue. Air can’t get in and words can’t get out but those choked-off moans hiss like _yes_ , over and over while Curt fucks him into the padded headboard. His hands scrabble at Curt’s hair, such hot hands, spindly and pale and square-nailed. Even-nailed. He drags them down Curt’s scalp, makes it hurt so good.

Sex looks even better on him now than ten years ago.

Arthur comes, the last weak spurts of a long hard night, and Curt lets off the tie. The first few breaths come harsh and haggard, but by the time Curt’s gotten the condom off Arthur has a voice enough to beg, “Yeah, please, finish off on me Curt--please, wanna wear you home--”

“You will,” Curt promises, jacking off hard. He pulls up on his knees, straddles Arthur’s heaving chest. Arthur’s dress shirt’s a wreck and the tie’s sopping wet, all sweat and spit and come. So’s his skin. His hair. His eyes, bulging and blazing like _space_.

“Please,” Arthur chokes out against Curt’s knee. Curt won’t say no to that. He lets it go all over Arthur’s jaw and throat, stains the tie and the collar beyond repair.

For as long as it takes Arthur’s eyes to refocus, Curt keeps staring.

*

If room service wasn’t comped, Curt wouldn’t get it. But it’s comped, and it’s _good_ , and Curt’s known for years that MMT sucks on an empty stomach. Arthur’s fond of Eggs Benedict--Curt’s not sure where he remembers that from, but it rings true--so he orders them while Arthur’s in the shower, and food arrives just as the water stops echoing. So Curt’s already one egg into a three-egg omelet when Arthur emerges and sits down across from him, naked from the waist up.

“You didn’t have to,” Arthur starts, and then laughs and corrects himself. “How did you know?”

Curt shrugs. “Just remembered.”

Even flushed from the shower, Arthur’s cheeks are pale enough to heat. “I wondered. If you did.”

“I didn’t until I saw you again,” Curt admits.

“But you did.”

Curt covers up any potentially sappy response to that with a huge bite of omelet, and Arthur digs in to his eggs.

The hotel room’s high up enough that the city is a faint buzz at street level. Morning’s never suited Curt. He wonders if Arthur’s a morning person--then again, he doesn’t look it, chugging coffee without milk. The only morning they’ve spent together (bar this one) was mostly slept-through, bookended by night, and Arthur’s face is made for halogen and shooting stars, the bright and hollow sky, the city’s ripped insides. Hey, that’s not bad. Curt puts down his fork and goes for the hotel desk, there should be a pen there.

Arthur laughs, covering his mouth a little. There’s hollandaise sauce at the corner. “Looking for something?”

“Got a lyric, don’t want to lose it.” There’s no pen on the desktop, so he yanks open the drawer. Bible, no pen. He takes the bible out anyway and chucks it at the window. Nothing breaks, but the bible lands on the radiator and it clanks to life. For fuck’s sake--

Arthur’s bare chest presses to Curt’s back. One arm, wrapped around him, is holding a plain Bic pen.

“--thanks,” Curt says, taking it. There’s a pad by the phone--but seriously? No fucking _pen?_ \--and Curt leans over and scribbles the words out with Arthur still draped over his back.

_so let’s take a ride,_ he adds, _and see what’s mine_. Yeah, that’s good too. It’s all good. _This_ is good.

“I have to get to JFK by noon,” Arthur murmurs against the nape of Curt’s neck, “so. I should probably go.”

“Do what you’ve gotta do,” Curt says. “Where--oh. New job, right.”

For all that Arthur’s neck is the one that’s ringed with bruises, Curt’s throat’s all swollen.

“Home,” Curt remembers.

Arthur shakes his head no, long black hair over his eyes. “England. London.”

* *

“The thing about Curt,” Hoult says, like it’s the beginning of his Conclusions section in the first draft of an essay, “is that it’s not about the money for him. Never has been. Even money isn’t about money, it’s about what you can get with it. I’ve been with him since Michigan and it took until London for him to buy a dang house. And he thinks that other people think the same way. To be fair to him, a lot of them do. Them, musicians, I mean. Us. And the kind of people who _do_ think about the money aren’t usually the ones thinking about the music beyond what they can use it for.”

Riley takes that down. “So he doesn’t care whether confidence in Wild Records diminishes?”

“Not his department, or mine, but I don’t think so. Not quite. It’s more that he doesn’t care about the kind of people who play that game.”

“But what about A--I mean, Mr. Stuart? Isn’t he part of that same game?”

“No politics,” Hoult snaps. “Look, I think I’ve said enough.”

“But Mr. Hoult--”

“Did you get your answers, girl?”

Riley bites back a no. “Most of them. But if I could just--”

“Look, if you want to talk to Curt, you can try, but I don’t envy you that fight. Or that flight, ha.”

“But--”

“I won’t treat this like a scandal when it’s not one. Let it play out like the business decision it is. Everything else is nobody’s business but Curt’s. And Art’s.”

“--yes, sir. Mr. Hoult. Thank you.”

Once the call’s done, Riley plants her elbows on the legal pad and cradles her head in her hands. Okay. It’s enough information to go on, technically. It’s even a little more than some of the other US papers’ll have, if all they’re talking about is the collusion and not the case.

The collusion is _part_ of the case. Just not the part the other rags are thinking of, and Riley knows it.

But how many other favors can she call in?

* * *

Stars shoot by beyond the blast doors, glittering and silver-white. Arthur is the _Passenger_ , and Curt pilots, grip firm on the holographic spokes of the grand wheel. Its shape belongs back in the Age of Exploration, in the hands of Dias or Cook or Hook, but Curt’s fists pass through the light as it spins and flashes and it looks like nothing of this world. The console illuminates every plane of his body, the reflective buttons of his open synthetic silver coat and the low clasp of his belt. His hair, fractal white to his shoulders, blasts back with sympathetic gravity, and Arthur stares, transfixed.

_I look through the window so bright,_ the song goes, and Arthur does, _I see the stars come out tonight, I see the bright and hollow sky over the city’s red backside_. The hem of Arthur’s coat dusts the floor and curls of glitter rise around him like heat as he steps forward slowly. Where Curt shines, Arthur sucks in the light, shadowing even the beams that reach him from the helm. Matte black from neck to fingertips and toes, hair and eyes just barely defined. Only the green cabochon gleaming at his throat hearkens back to a world of color. He stalks toward the helm, _and all of it was made for you and me, ‘cause it just belongs to you and me, so let’s take a ride--_

Curt’s hand sweeps out, gathering the glitter and light from the air. It’s iridescent on his fingertip, pure silver on Arthur’s lips. He traces each one, bottom first, then top.

_\--see what’s mine_

* *

Wired isn’t covering hotel or transportation, but they’ll reimburse Riley for the flight. Probably. Maybe. Even if they don’t this’ll have to be worth it.

She’s never been to London before. Thankfully she has a passport, because of that one trip to Canada three years ago, and they stamp hers at Heathrow on a once-pristine page, and she has nothing to declare. Barely any luggage, either. (They confiscated all of her toiletries at SFO, what the _fuck_ was that.)

No matter. In for a penny, in for a pound. Oh right, currency exchange. She should do that. And does. And then gets on the Tube (the Tube!) and drops herself off right off Carnaby street.

Soho’s mostly head shops now. But it’s still pretty amazing to think that this was where it began. Where it happened. Where it’s still--okay no, it’s not still happening. But if it didn’t happen here it wouldn’t have started anywhere else.

If she closes her eyes and listens, there they are: Brian Slade. Curt Wild. Jack Fairy. Their fans, tromping around in ridiculous platform boots and powdered hair. Kissing each other on the street and never mind the sodomy laws, because that’s what their idols were doing onstage and because of that it was _okay_. It didn’t stay okay, not really, or maybe it’s just differently not-okay, or maybe okayness comes with a new host of problems, but their revolution of blatancy started here. They stared down the maw of a grey world and said, _color_.

There’s a record store on Carnaby and Broadwick, the stubborn kind that’s still got a few vinyls in the back. There’s a display out front, with a posterboard sign in red and black ink: GET ‘EM WHILE YOU CAN, and piles of Wild Records like sidewalk skyscrapers, not built to scale.

Riley snaps a couple of photos, just in case. And then picks a few to buy, even if she can’t afford them really.

The girl running the counter is a little younger than Riley; her artistically tattered _Screws_ T-shirt might be older than she is, but her boots are new, and she’s got piercings all up both light brown ears. Riley tries, and fails, not to stammer when she’s asking how much.

“Can’t take Euros,” the girl says. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine, um, just give me a sec.” Riley roots through her wallet--they can’t _just_ have given Euros at the airport, she asked for pounds too--right. “Here. Okay.”

The girl smiles and only rolls her eyes a little.

“Your eyeliner looks great,” Riley says, intelligently. Shit.

But the girl actually _blushes_ a little and bags up the CDs, shaking the paper once so it stays blown out. “Thanks. Here’s your change.”

Riley takes that, grateful that she can hide her face for a second while she gets her thoughts in order. “Um, question. Is all this on sale because of the, uh...”

“The piracy ruling? Yeah, that’s what my boss said.”

“Right. So, what do you think of that? I’m a reporter,” Riley adds quickly, before the girl can ask why she cares or anything like that, “sorry. I mean, I write for _Wired._ ”

The girl makes a little _ah_ sound, not quite disbelief but not quite amusement either. “Well, if this place goes out of business, _it’ll_ be fucked, but the bands’ll find some way to unfuck themselves, right?”  


“Good point,” Riley says. “Not sure I can print that, though.”

“Paraphrase it,” the girl laughs. “But yeah, that’s what my people are saying. Not that anyone listens.”

“Your people?”

She slips her hand over to a stack of cards on the countertop: a postcard for a club, riotous and neon graffiti in the shape of two guitars-that-are-also-Venus-symbols intertwined. “Address on the back,” she says. “Our set’s right at the top, so get there early.”

“I will,” Riley says without thinking. “Wait, tonight?”

“No, yesterday. _Yes_ tonight.” She drops two postcards in the bag. “There’s no list. Just say you know Jewels.”

“Jewels,” Riley repeats.

“Nice to meet you,” Jewels says, plopping the bag straight into Riley’s hands.

* *

> DAILY STAR  
>  11 MARCH 2002
> 
>   
>  **TIMES OF LONDON UNDER SIEGE**
> 
> PROTESTERS at the Times of London offices at Pennington Street have turned up the volume on their outcry to oust music critic and alleged double-dealer Arthur Stuart. Mr. Stuart, who has worked with the Times of London since repatriating in 1984, is accused by the masses of a wide range of charges, including payola, money laundering, kidnapping, and even paedophilia. Counter-protests by various hoodlums and gay rights groups have also developed, disrupting traffic, harassing local businessmen, and requiring the intervention of over 50 law enforcement officers.
> 
> The public nuisance began on 7 March when Curt Wild, American CEO of London-based Wild Records, announced his support of music pirates and bootleggers, who use Internet services like UpSter to violate copyright and distribute music for free. Mr. Stuart, a once-respected critic at the Times, threw his hat in with Mr. Wild in an editorial on 8 March. A subsequent investigation into possible collusion between the two revealed Mr. Stuart’s presence in photographs of Mr. Wild in his rockstar years, as early as 1990. But these are not photographs of a professional nature: no more professional than Mr. Stuart’s behavior in using his platform to promote the despicable dealings of his notoriously deviant heroin-addict lover.
> 
> Mr. Wild refuses to comment on the nature of his relationship with Mr. Stuart, and Mr. Stuart has taken a leave of absence from the Times. Apart from one compromising photograph of him in an embrace with a presumed Muslim immigrant teenager of indeterminate gender at Piccadilly Station, Mr. Stuart has not been seen in public since 9 March. We at the Daily Star can only hope Mr. Stuart is taking the time to reconsider his use of taxpayer-funded newspaper space for furthering his agenda.

* *

The line filters through the club door much faster than it would back home, and Riley might not have gotten in early enough to see Jewels’s entire set but in a way that’s better. It means she gets her first sight of Jewels and her band, The Carpet Bombes, in full swing over a bouncing crowd of cheering girls.

Jewels’s voice is _amazing_. Okay, the rest of her is too--her sharp angular body and her bronze skin and her tiny skirt and the neon cyberfalls in her hair--but her _voice_ , good god, that’s going to stick with Riley forever. She sings about changing not just the earth but the sky, and even the _oohs_ and _aahs_ of the chorus soar. _let’s go somewhere we don’t know, it’s not running away just to take control_ , she says. 

By the time the set is done, Riley hasn’t moved from that first vantage point. She cheers, of course, but once her hands come together for the first clap they just stay clasped together chest-high, like she’s praying.

Yes. Yes this, yes everything.

“You made it!” Jewels comes up to her, sweating through her makeup and looking hot and parched--oh, crap crap crap Riley’s blocking the bar, no wonder--

“Sorry! I mean yes. I mean. Hi. You were--you’re amazing. Sorry I’m such a tool it’s just I’ve never heard a voice like yours before and I really wanted to come here tonight and I hope you get signed soon if that’s what you want I mean I know it’s not what everyone wants and--”

The _look_ Jewels gives her would be heart-shattering if it lasted one second longer. But it doesn’t last, because Jewels leans in and presses her smile against Riley’s lips. That. That is definitely a kiss. Um.

But it stops, and Jewels is still grinning. “You need a drink.”

_“Yes,”_ Riley completely agrees. 

One drink leads to another. Which leads to a round of introductions to the rest of the Carpet Bombes, though Jewels stays close by Riley’s side the entire time. Which leads to the other four members of the band, three of whom are evidently fucking each other five minutes from now and the last of whom really wants to get home to mind her kid, leaving Jewels and Riley alone. Which leads to third and fourth and fifth drinks in a booth in the back while Jewels talks about her process and someone onstage starts a cover of a cover of a band that’s meant to be Sleater-Kinney.

Jewels pauses in her tale of how she restored her guitar to look at the stage and cringe. “Doesn’t fit their sound at all,” she says. “You can’t synth that. Even Corynne would cringe.”

Riley blinks. “I don’t know, they sound fine to me.”

“Nah. I mean, she told me she doesn’t mind it, but the last time I saw her these straight guys covered it and it totally missed the point.”

“Really? But that--wait. You know Corynne? From S--I mean for real?”

Jewels’s eyebrows shoot up, though the rest of her forehead seems to wrinkle down and all her piercings seem to quiver. 

“You really don’t know,” Jewels says.

Riley’s throat dries out. “Don’t know what?”

Never mind the cover band, and never mind the club: Jewels leans back against the booth and thumbs her right temple agitatedly. The longest earring on that ear swings like a pendulum, a kind of old-timey green and gold cabochon that doesn’t really go with the rest of the outfit.

“My dad was Jack Fairy,” she says.

*

It is New Years Eve, 1987 becoming ’88, and England is _still_ under the thumb of a ruthless elected dictator. Jack is hosting, because of course Jack is hosting, and the party promises everything the world won’t.

Which is why Curt set out to change it in the first place, after all. And changed what he could.

Jack’s as glamorous as ever, if bald. The theme this year is Ultraviolet/Infrared, and Jack’s worn all white, like a senatorial robe with a holographic stripe that climbs over his scalp, and everything glows in the blacklight. Curt hasn’t seen him in a couple months, and knows not to ask if he’s paler than usual because of makeup or, well. 

Curt could give two shits about themed parties, but it’s too cold to show up naked so he got one of the roadies to do some graffiti on his otherwise black T-shirt. Jack seems happy enough when he leans in and kisses Curt just under the ear.

“Missed you in Germany,” Jack says, silky and quiet. “How did it go?”

Curt shrugs. “Got a couple ideas. Which side of the Wall were you on this time?”

Jack laughs and shakes his head, just pats Curt’s chest and brushes past him to the railing where the balcony overlooks the dance floor. One set ends, another begins, and the New Demimonde or whatever the hell they call themselves waits in twitching limbo with champagne and probably coke.

“Pay attention to the next ones up,” Jack says, which of course isn’t an answer to Curt’s question, but then it never is. “I’m still not quite sure what to do with them.”

“Other than pay them to play for you.”

“As far as I knew, you weren’t available.”

“Ha, ha.” Curt takes a swig of beer--fuck champagne--and comes to stand next to him. “I’m not your tech, Jack.”

“Of course not.” Jack’s pale knuckles flash in the blacklight as they tighten on the railing, but the long sleeves drape over them and shut out all his skin. “More than that, Curt. You’ve always been more than that.”

Downstairs, the new band’s set up, and doesn’t bother working the crowd, just launches in with their deadpan, unearthly stage personae and a clear opening, _I’m taking a ride with my best friend_. Heavy on the synthesizers, yeah, there are two of them; it’s the kind of manufactured New Wave sound that Curt’s been hearing everywhere, but the stonefaced seriousness gives it an edge, and the two lead singers blend well on the refrain. Not bad. Deep but not dark, the way Brian used to sound. But yeah, something’s missing.

The crowd gets into it in drips and drabs, at least from where Curt’s standing. Jack’s hidden fingernails drum on the rail, two quick arpeggios.

“Chorus,” Curt suggests. “They need a multitrack treatment. The blend’s fine but it’s too grounded for the instrumentation.”

Jack shuts his eyes and nods. “I can hear it. So do it.”

“Wrong side of the wall, Jack.”

The butt of Curt’s beer bottle clanks on the rail as he pushes away--but Jack grabs him by the wrist. Fuck, his hand’s so cold.

“Do it, Curt. I don’t want anyone else to.”

Curt doesn’t take orders from anyone. It’s a point of fucking _pride._ But this isn’t an order, it’s a friend pleading with him. To get something done. To change the game.

There’s another island of glowing white, head-high and off to the side of the neon crowd. Black hair, black suit, but a face as pale as his dress shirt and a thin black tie--

“Arthur.” The name drops off Curt’s lips, and Jack catches it.

“Oh good, you know the critic,” Jack drawls, a glimmer in his eye. “Another reason for you to take the helm.”

Just because it’s Jack’s party doesn’t mean Curt can’t give him the finger. Affectionately. But still the finger.

It takes Curt far too long to get downstairs, far too long to shove through the crowd. One song ends, another begins, and Arthur’s still standing, taking notes into a tape recorder at the level of his lips. He looks up mid-sentence while Curt’s still an arm’s length away, but his hand doesn’t drop even after Curt grabs him by the cheeks and kisses him. Hard. Here. Now. While sparklers fly and years end and music tells the world _enjoy the silence_.

* *

“I’ve been living with friends of his since he passed,” Jewels explains, which explains _nothing_. “At first I just couldn’t get to Mom’s extended family, but, yeah, my life was here.”

Riley’s said _sorry_ about fifty times in the past five minutes, so she really shouldn’t say it again. She blocks the next one with what’s left of her drink, and nods, and nods, and nods.

There’s a sad edge to Jewels’s-- _Juliette Amanda Fairy_ , Jesus Christ wouldn’t you change it too?--Jewels’s smile now, like it’s smudged. Like her eyeliner. “You know I’m only telling you because you didn’t ask, right? If this turns up in any of those tabloid rags I swear I’ll have you killed. I’ve got enough shite to deal with already.”

Riley nearly chokes on the ice. “I’d never,” she manages. “I mean. No. Never.”

Jewels snickers. “Just kidding. But I do mean the rest. Life’s not exactly easy right now.”

“I get that,” Riley says, and then can’t help the next couple of _sorry_ s. 

But Jewels just laughs, and leans in, and keeps kissing Riley until she’s got much, much better things to say.

Also, the correct response to _So do you want to go some place the protesters haven’t found_ isn’t _sorry_ , it’s _yes yes yes_.

* * *

“Now that I have your undivided attention,” Curt says as he taps his half-gloved palm with a glittering crop, “I intend to instruct you in my perspective.”

Arthur’s cuffed to _Galahad_ ’s central support--it would be a mast on a ship from another era, and the scenario is altogether appropriate--with his arms above his head in binders made of jewels and light. His coat is open, his shirt is gone, his pants hobble his ankles and the cravat and pin dangle open on his heaving throat. But he doesn’t cringe or flinch away like a chastened prisoner, nor does he snarl and make known his defiance. He tests the bonds, arches his back off the holographic console.

And _smirks_. “That’s the most eloquent I’ve ever heard you.”

Curt grins back, feral, twisting the strap in his palms. “Only ‘cause you haven’t been listening.”

“Listening is what I do, Captain.”

“Not all you do.” Curt shakes his head, coming near enough to trail the crop up Arthur’s bare chest. “Maybe a long time ago, you just listened, but now? Now you talk. You _critique_. So that’s how this is gonna work, critic: critique me. Tell me what you think about everything I do to you. Maybe then you’ll stop just listening and _see_ where I’m coming from.”

Arthur’s jaw trembles; the crop’s tracing his lower lip now, but when his tongue flicks out to taste it Curt pulls the entire thing back.

“We’ll start with this,” he says, and tugs off Arthur’s dangling black cravat. A quick, playful twist and it’s wrapped over Arthur’s eyes.

The fabric crinkles where an eyebrow would raise. “I thought you liked people watching you.”

“Yeah,” Curt admits, “but this is about _you_ isn’t it? Start talking, critic. How do you like knowing I’m watching you?”

“Not as much as I’d like you doing something about it.”

“Not a bad idea. I could just get myself off while you’re hanging there. Bet you’d hear it all.” To make a point of it, Curt cups himself through his slick hide pants, gives a little jerk. “How ‘bout the sound of that?”

Arthur’s chest hitches. “Still not enough.”

“Never is for you.” Curt pops the buckle of his pants and shoves that hand past the waistband, steps forward to drag the tip of his cock over Arthur’s bare hipbone. “That’s what you want, isn’t it. You don’t even care how, you just want it. In your mouth. In your ass.”

“ _Yes,_ Curt--”

The crop lashes out, thwacks hard and audible on Arthur’s thigh, and the music _really_ begins. It’s guttural, distorted, gasps and screams and a grinding, hammering lead. Stripes of pink and gold bubble up from Arthur’s skin, and Curt’s hard and hurting without even laying a hand on Arthur. Just _look_ at him, _listen_ to him, begging for more and harder every time the leather lands.

Stars streak by beyond the windows. Somehow, Curt knows, Arthur’s seeing them too.

“Yes!” Arthur groans, pitching forward when his knees give out, “yes--Curt, ah--there--”

_There_ , fine, Curt swats Arthur’s white thigh right where it’s reddening, where all of Arthur’s blood and mind have gone. Fuck, he’s delicious like this, laid out and wanting and _strong,_ battered and sweaty all over and swollen, ready. Curt leaves him hanging a bit, takes the time to stroke the length of Arthur’s cock with the edge of the crop, and Arthur shivers and gasps, little incoherent half-words that Curt could remix into a track of pure ambient _sex_.

“What’s missing?” Curt teases, nudging the crop behind Arthur’s balls. Arthur tries to ride it on instinct, fuck, he’ll take anything as long as Curt gives it and it shows. “Got any complaints?”

Arthur bites his lip, worries it. Curt could kiss him, yeah, but there’s buildup to get through, there’s more to wring out of Arthur when he gets like this, fucking the air and clamping his ass down on that too-thin strip of leather right where he wants something else. 

Curt leans in, nudges the crop back and forth between Arthur’s legs. “Cat got your tongue?”

Arthur’s whimper echoes through the ship, down its endless halls. “Curt, please...”

His face is nestled against the crook of Arthur’s neck. The collar of the coat scratches his jaw, but Arthur’s skin is slick, beading. Curt licks a trail up Arthur’s throat, nips him under the jaw. “Please what?” Arthur trembles and groans, so Curt goes on, tasting and whispering, “Please fuck you? Please put you on your knees and fill you up? You want something, kid, you’ve gotta tell me what you wish for.” He smiles and lets Arthur _feel_ it, the flats of his teeth with the lips peeled back. “Whatever it is, it’s yours.”

Chest heaving, Arthur jerks forward, grinds against Curt’s hip and fist where he’s holding the crop. “Just touch me--touch me please--that’s all I want--”

“Then it’s yours.” Curt drops the crop and folds his hand on Arthur’s cock. His flesh is hot even through the half-glove, hotter and wetter when Curt drags his thumb on the head. Arthur sags forward, panting little bitten-off gasps into Curt’s chest while Curt works him hard, jerks him to the edge and _keeps him there_ , shit, keeps Arthur at his mercy until he can’t even beg anymore.

That power is a better high than anything else Curt’s ever done. 

If it weren’t for the cuffs, Arthur’d hit the floor; his feet scrabble on the deck, tangled in his rumpled pants, and his hands grasp at nothing. Curt holds that weight, strokes his back and pumps his cock until he feels Arthur’s tears through the blindfold. His chest hitches with wretched sobs and fuck that sounds so good, Curt has to let him know.

He slams his shoulder into the release for the cuffs, and Arthur collapses against him, slides to his knees on the deck. His dick juts out, throbbing, still demanding attention. The blindfold’s askew, slipping back down to Arthur’s neck, but his eyes are wild and red-rimmed, big black pupils filled with glitter and stars.

He’s Curt’s. He’s been Curt’s from the start.

He grabs Curt by the hips and yanks him forward, choking himself on Curt’s cock.

* *

It is 13 March, 2002, and Riley Hyatt has woken up in someone else’s bed. In someone else’s house. In someone else’s _country._

_Sex with girls is awesome._ Sex with Jewels in specific. It’s a little less awesome that apparently Riley’s hair has gotten tangled in Jewels’s piercings overnight, which means that when Riley tries to sit up she ends up yanking Jewels too and wakes her up--which, shit, sorry--but Jewels just swats at her and says she’s going back to sleep, see you downstairs. There’s food. Later.

So Riley finds some clothes to put on--her shirt’s missing, so she grabs one of the big ones lying around in the mess on Jewels’s floor, Wylde Rattz reunion tour ’95--gets herself to the bathroom, has a quick shower (holy crap holy crap she really just had awesome sex with a girl _in London_ ) and tries not to look so hung over by the time she gets out.

Maybe Jewels decided to get up after all: there’s music coming from downstairs, ( _London Calling_ , classic) and an amazing buttery-eggs smell that makes Riley’s stomach both rumble and churn. She’s down the stairs in a giddy whirl--sex, with a girl, in London, who makes breakfast after! Riley thinks she’s never going home.

She hits the front hall before the kitchen--she didn’t get a good look when they came in last night--but the tantalizing scent and the music are coming from the right hallway, so Riley heads that way. The hall’s lined with photographs and framed records, platinum and gold, and opens onto a too-sunny kitchen with foggy green beyond the windows, and Curt Wild is shirtless at the stove, making Eggs Benedict.

He looks up, gives Riley a once-over and raises his eyebrows. “Jewels brought you?”

Wait. Curt Wild. Is at the stove. Making Eggs Benedict.

When Riley doesn’t say anything because _she cannot say anything_ , Curt trades out the spatula for a coffee mug and takes a long drag. “You vegan or something? No eggs?”

“What,” Riley manages.

Curt puts the mug back down, then leans in at her. “Eggs. Yes or no.”

A door on the other side of the kitchen swings open with a gust of gold air and the distinct sound of an old dog’s nails on the tile floor. The dog in question shakes its copious fur and makes straight for, presumably, its food. The human behind him locking the door is Arthur Stuart.

Arthur looks Riley straight in the eyes, lips parted just a little. Shock, maybe. Not shock like hers, though--there’s sympathy there, and tiredness, and recognition.

“Come and sit down,” Arthur says, evenly. “There’s coffee. It’s fresh. I can’t get on without it either.”

Riley shambles to the table like someone’s snatched her body and hasn’t quite figured out the controls. On the way she passes Curt, who stirs Hollandaise sauce and laughs. She almost trips over her feet getting a look at him: Curt looks his age, but excellent for it. Either his hair’s gone completely white or he’s just bleached it to death, and it’s thinner than it is in all the posters on Riley’s wall. His chest is peppered with scars but still defined, his stomach healthy and thick in a straight line to his jeans. He’s fifty-five. He’s Curt Wild and he’s _fifty-five_ and making Hollandaise sauce and petting an old sheepdog with his bare foot. And Arthur Stuart, whose looks never mattered to Riley really except that he looks well enough for a middle-aged music critic and has a lovely smile, is wearing a bathrobe and slippers in Curt Wild’s kitchen.

Arthur pours Riley coffee as she sits down, clears a newspaper off her space. “What’s your name?” he asks, sliding her the sugar bowl.

“Riley,” she stammers. “Riley Hyatt. Um. I work for _Wired_. But that’s not why I’m here, I swear--”

“I figured.” Arthur’s eyes glint as he throws a glance over Riley’s shoulder, probably at Curt. “Our little girl lives dangerously, but not that dangerously.”

“Our,” Riley repeats. Nope, higher brain functions still not restored.

“Still hasn’t answered my question about the eggs,” Curt drawls from the stove.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “He’s cranky, ignore him.”

Curt flips Arthur the bird, Arthur laughs and flips one back. Riley is possibly going insane.

“Drink the coffee,” Arthur goes on. Riley obeys. She’s evidently stirred sugar into it on autopilot and it’s too sweet but _Arthur Stuart is telling her to drink coffee_ so by God she’s going to drink it regardless. “So. Even if you didn’t come here to talk to us, you’re in London reporting, right?”

Riley gulps--coffee burns a little--then nods. “Just about the--about the ruling. Not about you.”

“Oh, you’re the one that called Keith.” Curt says.

“--yeah.” Riley twists to look at Curt over her shoulder. “I called Mr. Hoult.”

Curt scoffs and goes back to stirring the sauce. “And what, he dared you to come here?”

Riley can’t help wincing. “Yes. Sir. Sort of.”

Arthur sighs. “Sounds like Keith.” He reaches out and pats Riley’s hand. “Well, as long as you’re here, I don’t mind you getting some answers. As long as I get one first.”

“Of course! Um. Mr. Stuart.”

Arthur smiles, and shakes his head gently. “How do you want your eggs?”

*

_Time is never time enough,_ even if it’s 1995 and a private concert at the country house of someone whose name Curt will remember tomorrow, maybe. A band that totally isn’t Smashing Pumpkins has flown in from America, and they brought a fucking _cello_ , and they required an extra seat on the plane because apparently they don’t pack like guitars. So far, the song’s worth it.

The whole evening’s worth it.

The song sweeps through the party, leads Curt’s eye directly to Arthur, leaning against the garden wall. He’s not recording anything, just listening, all the long lines of him intent on the performance. The years show on him, but not enough to diminish those hopeful eyes that Curt remembers from 1975. That first sight of Arthur, with his awkward haircut tinted blue and Maxwell Demon’s makeup broadening his features, rolls into Curt’s mind like the drums, and Arthur turns to him, catches his eye. 

Curt takes the first step closer, but Arthur matches that step until he’s close enough for Curt to hand him a drink. His _thanks_ is as quiet as the next sip, and he settles against Curt’s side. “Not bored?”

“They’re not bad,” Curt admits. “This song’s working.”

Arthur smiles and takes another sip; Curt holds his own glass, thumbs the condensation. Something’s going unsaid, and he’s not sure what. The lead singer, nasal-voiced so he cuts through the powerful orchestration, cello and all, sings _Tonight, so bright, tonight, tonight._ Maybe it’s only unsaid because it’s being sung.

“I was thinking,” Arthur says, just barely louder than the lull in the instrumental.

Curt prompts him, “Yeah?”

“I want to give you a ring, and then have you fuck me senseless.” He says it so plainly, only a hint of a blush on his cheeks to bring out the boldness in those words. “I’ve wanted it for a while. The song’s bringing it forward, is all.”

“No,” Curt whispers, “I mean, I get it.”

“I mean, we’re already both taking care of Jewels,” Arthur keeps going, like Curt hasn’t said yes yet, “putting money into the same house, dealing with Maxwell--so I thought, why not? No one has to know if you don’t want them to--”

“Arthur.” Curt’s already reached up to put the palm of his hand over Oscar Wilde’s pin, framing Arthur’s throat. “I gave you that freedom a long time ago.”

No one wears platform shoes anymore, so Arthur’s taller, but that still doesn’t change how they kiss. They fit like they did twenty years ago, tender and high, and music surges around them like a static charge. Curt holds onto Arthur, grounds himself in that welcoming, worshipful touch.

Neither of them sees the stars begin to fall: a photographer captures that, and later, when the picture is developed and framed, they’ll be immortal, tonight.

* *

The sheepdog’s name, evidently, is Maxwell: Jewels picked it and wouldn’t let Curt dissuade her. Maxwell is currently curled up in a pile of shaggy grey fur as Jewels brushes him, while Riley stares at the photographs on the wall.

Dozens. Nearly all candid: Curt onstage, Arthur and Jewels at the keyboard, all three at a party, on a cruise, on the Great Wall of China, Jewels getting her hair bleached, Arthur at the breakfast table, Curt and Jack in suits. There’s a life that goes beyond the music, that cuts into places that fans and lawyers never reach.

“The short answer is, I suppose, yes.” Arthur’s settled into the couch, another cup of coffee in his folded hands. “Yes, we’re working outside the law. We always have, one way or another. Are we together? Yes. Do we agree? Yes. That doesn’t make my opinion on that ridiculous ruling any less my own. And it’s all very romantic, but that’s not what you came here for, is it?”

Riley shakes her head. “Wired wants to know...well. Wired wants to know different things than I do. They’d ask things like how you can do this to your artists, Mr. Wild.”

Curt, sitting on the windowsill, scowls into his tea. “How could the artists do this to the fucking industry? Real artists stand against the system, they aren’t its face. They set out to change the world.”

“Well it changed,” Jewels says wryly from the floor.

“And I’m not trying to change it back.” Curt sighs, turns back to Riley, eyebrows knotted in, elbows on his knees. “Don’t misunderstand me. I’m giving the same ‘fuck you’ that I gave the world when I was twenty-five. Fuck Billboard, fuck the RIAA, and fuck anyone who says my music isn’t mine. The industry’s full of sharks, not artists. And _that’s_ what you’re asking, that’s what you want to hear. Arthur’s blood’s in the water and they’re sniffing at it because they can’t just own up to liking the taste.”

Riley nods. “But you’re still a part of it, aren’t you? Both of you?”

They look to each other. Maxwell snuffles on the floor, one canine whimper as Jewels stops petting him.

Arthur turns back to Riley, with one long blink before he meets her eyes again. “ _A man’s life is his image,_ ” he quotes, somberly, “but an artist’s is his passion. Are you asking the artist, or the man?”

Riley doesn’t have an answer to that. She may never. 

Which, she guesses, means they’re both. Curt and Arthur are both; legends, celebrities, people, parents. History and Present. Citizen and Alien.

Real and Unreal.

And now Riley can never unknow it.

* *

“Keep the shirt,” Jewels says with a big bright grin, an hour later when Riley _still can’t find hers._

Riley thought she’d overclocked her capacity to blush, but nope, she’s still got enough to make her cheeks flare up. “You’re sure?”

“We’ve got a whole box in the attic,” Jewels shrugs.

“This really happened.” The words just drop out of Riley into the pile of clothes on the bedroom floor.

Jewels wrinkles her nose. “Yeah, they’re pretty awesome I guess.”

“No, I mean--” Riley clears her throat. “I mean, them too. But you. _You._ I’ve never...”

There’s a photo of Arthur Stuart downstairs, with the band he used to work for, huddled together in a booth at some bar. He must have been about Jewels’s age, back then. His hair’s a muddy blue, his eyes are glassy and hopeful and wide, so wide. Not shy, when it counts. Sharp enough to see beyond the glitter to reality.

Riley takes a breath, and inspiration. “Will I see you again?”

That little twinge of sourness is gone from Jewels’s face, completely. And maybe it’s just that all the shock has worn off, but Riley thinks she’s even prettier without the eyeliner, without the cyberfalls, with strands of Maxwell’s fur on her shirt. “Maybe,” Jewels says, a little teasing twitch of her shoulders. “I’ve been trying to book gigs in America. New York, Seattle, San Francisco. I’ll make sure to hit you up.”

“That would be great.”

Jewels flops down next to her in a pile of clothes, jabs a bony elbow into Riley’s side, then kisses her neck. The green cabochon earring swings, once, twice. “Are you going to write the article?”

“I have to,” Riley admits. “But I’ll stick to what the public needs to know.”

_And unsubscribe from the mailing lists,_ she thinks. _It’ll be way too weird, now._

* * *

Beyond the stratosphere, beyond the trajectory of Riley’s plane home, the Starship _Galahad_ drifts in blissful orbit. It leaves a trail of glitter through the sky, fragments of star-stuff and music, the silver lining in Earth’s grey clouds.

Two figures hold hands by the shielded bay doors, watching their work canvas the sky below. One wears a smart black suit: the other only tight platinum pants and heavy boots. They don’t hold hands, but their knuckles bump. Curt laughs, Arthur listens and smiles.

Somewhere, an anthem plays, and credits roll, and mere mortals impress themselves on dreams. Somewhere, people create their images and artists foster their passions, and idols rise. Opposed, and fought, but never deterred.

Whatever else happens, the world cannot ignore a story played at maximum volume.

* *

**Author's Note:**

> In the spirit of piracy: [a soundtrack of dubious legality and provenance](http://cueyoutube.com/wsly/WslyLanding/?r=WslyAppIndex&code=5Fn).


End file.
